


Things Unsaid

by fireandhoney



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Pain, Post Reichenbach, Questions, Reichenbach Fall, Sad, john in therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:13:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28179666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireandhoney/pseuds/fireandhoney
Summary: "What were we, Sherlock, but a series of things unsaid?"
Relationships: Johnlock, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	Things Unsaid

Ella asked me to say all the things I’d never gotten to say before. All the things I never got to say to you.  
Well, that is a list, isn’t it?  
What were we, Sherlock, but a series of things unsaid?

We met and without me saying anything, anything but “Here, use mine”, you deduced my entire life. Or, what was worth mentioning of my life. And you told me all about it, all about my leg, about the army, about Harry, even about the drinking. And you were all right, of course, you always are.  
But what about everything else. What about my shitty bedsit? What about the way I’d hold my gun in my hand every morning, wondering if today was finally the day I’d have enough guts to make it the last one? What about that? I think you saw it, too. I think you knew. But I’ll never know for sure. I’ll never know for sure because we never talked about it. I never told you, and you never mentioned it. Things unsaid. 

We moved in together. Baker Street immediately felt like home, at least to me, even with all your equipment everywhere. Even with the body parts in the fridge. Even with the violin in the middle of the night. I complained about these things so many times, but I secretly loved them. I never told you, of course, you wouldn’t shut up about it if I did. But these things made Baker Street ours and now, I would do anything to wake up to your antics rather than the silence. Your life, our life together, was anything but. It was loud; gunshots, yelling, running, sirens, blood pumping and heartbeats. But it was also the steps of your pacing, the violin as you were thinking, the typing on my keyboard as I worked on my blog, the varieties of your experiments, your complaints over trash telly, the sounds of our takeaway containers. Quiet conversations as we sip our tea, sitting in our chair in front of the fire. We talked about so many things, so many cases, so many experiments. But never the important things, did we? Never us. Things unsaid.

We started working together. Well, working, if you called it that. We were colleagues, yes. But was I really working, or mostly making sure you were acting decently with others? How many times did you leave me outside, did you keep me out? How many times was I just trailing along, listening to you deduce a suspect’s entire existence from the way they were holding a pen and leaning at their desk, or understanding a victim was adopted from the clothes they were found in? You told me once that my presence helped you, and I always assumed it did, somehow. But what did I contribute to your work, really, if I could be gone for hours without you noticing? Why did you need me sometimes, and pushed me away in others? What could I have done to be truly useful, how much more could I have contributed if you’d told me everything that was going on? Did you really not trust me, Sherlock, or did you believe my help wasn’t valuable? Things unsaid. 

What about Irene, uh? I know you knew she isn’t dead. I know you probably had something to do with it. What happened between you two? Why was she so special? Why did you never answer her texts? Did you really have feelings for her? Or were you just impressed by a woman bold enough to not be intimidated by your greatness? Did you forgive her for playing you? Was there something more? And what about Battersea? I know you were there, you heard some of it. Maybe, probably, the whole discussion. What were you thinking? Why didn’t you say anything, why didn’t we talk about it? Even Irene dared talk about it, and we didn’t. We never did, did we? Things unsaid.

When you stood up on that roof, Sherlock, when you asked me to keep my eyes on you. When you told me this was your note? Usually people who leave a note have a plan before hands. They’ve been thinking about it for a while. Were you? Were you think about killing yourself? What led you to thinking that was the solution? What did I do, or didn’t do, that made you even consider this? What did Moriarty do? How did he convince you, or did you even need convincing? Did you think of me, of Mrs Hudson, of Greg, of your brother? Did you think we’d be better off without you? Did you not even consider us? Did you not consider me? 

And when you said it was all a magic trick? Did you expect me to believe that? Did you think I would suddenly forget everything you were, everything we’ve gone through? Did you think I would suddenly think everything you’ve ever said was a lie? That you snuck around me to commit all those crimes and then brilliantly deduce facts and information about people and places and things only to show off? Oh, you were a show off, Sherlock, don’t even get me started on that. But there isn’t a single cell in my body that would believe you were a criminal. You may have been an ass, absolutely insufferable at times and a bother at best, but you weren’t a criminal. You were a genius, an amazing, brilliant, fascinating man, and nothing anyone can ever say or ever do will make me believe otherwise. Did you really, truly expect me to believe you were anything less than extraordinary? Things unsaid. 

So when Ella asked me to say the things I had never said, the things I never got to say to you, I couldn’t. I couldn’t say those things because there were so many. I couldn’t say those things because, what would it change? I couldn’t say those things because you couldn’t either, and the only one I should say them to is you.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe someday I'll stop writing John suffering, but today is not that day


End file.
